


In Which Thorin Gives In To Himself

by liadan14



Series: Sexual Mores in Erebor (Fills from the Hobbit Kink Meme) [2]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Thorin, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:37:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liadan14/pseuds/liadan14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin walks in on Dwalin and Bofur in a compromising position. He is inspired, and then wishes he weren't, and then is very glad he is. Thorin/Kíli</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Thorin Gives In To Himself

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [In Which Dwalin is Very Surprised](http://archiveofourown.org/works/746828)
> 
> Warnings for Durincest and rimming, and for Thorin's voice being absolutely insane.

Erebor has long since filled up again, trains of dwarves trundling in from Ered Luin, and Thorin has gotten used to the thrum of a living mountain surrounding him once again, after the silence of the first month or so, with just the fourteen members of the company and those few of Dain’s army who stayed behind.

 

However, there’s the background hum of noise, and then there’s this, this unholy caterwauling that woke Thorin twenty minutes ago and hasn’t let up even a little.

He can’t even rightly tell where it’s coming from, it must be near him, but the noises are strangely intermittent and vary so strongly in pitch it just sounds strange. Finally, he gives up on sleep and struggles out of his bedclothes, leaving Kíli sleeping beside him, and goes to the door.

 

In the hallway it’s quite obvious the noises are coming from Dwalin’s rooms across the way, which makes Thorin worry. Dwalin’s not a loud dwarf; Thorin’s known him his whole life, and he’s never heard this kind of noise from Dwalin, this unbelievable yelling, not even that time in Rohan with the stable hand, and Thorin had only been ten feet away that particular, mentally scarring, night.

 

Obviously, the only logical conclusion is that something is wrong and he has to go save his friend.

 

Thorin sometimes understands why Gandalf thinks he’s thicker than the door to Erebor itself.

 

He opens the door, and everything freezes.

 

That is, Thorin freezes, in the doorway, mouth open. Dwalin freezes, on his back on the bed with his feet up hooked around Bofur’s back. Bofur freezes, head turned comically far to see who’s at the door, propped up on his hands and clearly balls-deep inside Dwalin.

 

The breath audibly and visibly rushes out of Dwalin’s chest.

 

“I.” Thorin says. “Um. Sorry, that is, ah, I apolog – look, just keep it down, will you?” Blushing, skin red hot under his beard, he turns on his heel and exits as fast as he came.

 

“I can –“ he hears Bofur start before the door shuts.

 

He also hears Dwalin growl, “Don’t you dare fuckin’ stop.”

 

Except, actually growl.

 

And then scream.

 

It takes Thorin a very long time indeed to fall asleep that night.

 

-

 

He avoids Dwalin and Bofur for a solid week. It’s not as if he doesn’t have excuses, he’s King under the mountain and the work never seems to end, but Dwalin has been his best friend for years now. He never wanted to see Dwalin in that position.

 

Still, it’s not as if Thorin is above reproach. Kíli is something of a screamer, and Mahal knows he’s had his nephew over every piece of furniture in his apartments. That, on second thought, is not even a little bit Thorin’s fault, given the way Kíli will sometimes look over at him and smirk and bend to pick up things he has _clearly_ dropped on purpose and…

 

But that is not the point. The point is that Dwalin and Thorin are very much alike, both in stature and in being _warriors of the line of Durin_ , and Bofur, well, Bofur’s actually much like Kíli, all lithe and nimble and dark and the fact that Dwalin would be under –

 

Thorin is trying very hard not to think about it. He is King under the Mountain, and he cannot spend his council meetings thinking about whether or not he wants to get fucked up the arse.

 

Not that he is doing that in any way.

 

Just because Dwalin is doing it doesn’t mean he has to.

 

If Thorin’s thoughts become any more juvenile, he is liable to stab himself in the eye with an arrow. One of the fancy ones he gifted Kíli with when he came of age, most like.

 

This is the rough state of affairs in the mind of one dwarven King when Dwalin finally comes strolling into his office a week later, clearly sick of his evasion.

 

“Are you angry about me and Bofur, or are you just embarrassed?” Dwalin asks bluntly, having known Thorin for well over a century. “If it’s the latter, don’t even get me started on half the noises I hear from your end of the corridor at night.”

 

“I’m not angry, why would I be angry?” Thorin is distracted by bruise, no, the love-bite, clearly rising of Dwalin’s collar.

 

Dwalin snorts. “Fuck if I know, but you’ve certainly not been talking to me.”

 

“I apologize,” Thorin says with all his kingly dignity. “I’ve been having a very busy week, and – “

 

Dwalin lets himself fall into the chair opposite Thorin’s desk, legs spread and every inch the alpha male.

 

“Um.” Thorin says, once again remembering the noise Dwalin made when Bofur. Well. “I just had things on my mind.”

 

“It’s not just fucking, if that’s what’s upset you,” Dwalin says, “We just thought we’d best wait on formalities until Erebor’s a tad more settled.”

 

Thorin gives him a Look. “You know I couldn’t give a flying fuck in a rolling bracelet who you’re fucking and why you’re fucking them, though I’m happy for you and Bofur if you are indeed settling down.”

 

Dwalin grins, the grin of the well-pleased (and well-fucked) dwarf. “Well then,” he says, “Now that’s settled, what’s got your kingly britches in a bunch?”

 

“I.” Thorin curses his pale complexion as he goes bright red and looks down at his paperwork. “Nothing at all. I told you, I’ve been busy.”

 

Dwalin studies him silently for a few moments, and Thorin hopes he believes thae half-baked excuse, but Dwalin is still the dwarf Thorin went to taverns and whorehouses with, and the dwarf who most likely knows most about every sexual encounter Thorin has ever had. Excepting Kíli. Some things are sacred.

 

Some things Dwalin does not want to know.

 

“It’s because he was fucking me, wasn’t it?”

 

Thorin’s head thunks down against the desk.

 

“You should try it some time.” Dwalin is grinning that shit-eating grin of his again. “I’d never thought to, till Bofur came along, but let me tell you, that was a mistake. He’s wicked talented with his – “

 

“For the love of Erebor, please don’t finish that sentence,” Thorin mutters, more red-faced than he has ever been in his life.

 

“Ah, laddie,” Dwalin says, apparently having too much good sex to have any shame whatsoever. “Letting your lover take care of you is half the fun. ‘Sides, haven’t you ever wondered what’s in it for the one getting tupped?”

 

“Shut up,” Thorin says.

 

“I’m not having you on, it’s the best thing anyone’s ever done to me, especially when he hits that spot just right…d’you know how long Bofur can go for? And sometimes, he’ll even use his tongue, let me tell you – “

 

“If you don’t stop talking right now, I am sending you and Bofur both on missions to opposite ends of Middle-Earth,” Thorin threatens, out of patience and trying very, very hard to suppress an image of Kíli on top of him, hair drenched in sweat, fucking away and whispering sweet nothings in Thorin’s ear.

 

“Have it your way,” Dwalin says, hands up in capitulation. “Just keep it in mind, is all I’m saying.”

 

-

 

Thorin keeps it in mind.

 

Thorin keeps it far too much in his mind, constantly, day-in, day-out, just that stupid little niggling kernel of a thought of what it would feel like to be flat on his back with Kíli driving him insane till he comes so hard he passes out. He knows Kíli could, goodness knows the lad is talented enough when it comes to bedsports already, but he doesn’t know that he can do this.

 

It’s certainly done wonders for their sex life as is, the constant thought in the back of Thorin’s mind making him so outrageously starved for it he’s been fucking Kíli at least twice a day for the past week and a half, to the point where Kíli’s walking with a slight limp, and Thorin feels guilty, really he does, but then he sees that wicked grin on the boy’s face and imagines it flashing across Kíli’s face as he slips a finger into Thorin’s entrance, and, well.

 

He comes deep inside Kíli that night, feverishly thinking of what Dwalin said about _mouths_ down there, and finally as he collapses next to Kíli he can’t stop his own tired mouth from blurting out, “I want you to fuck me.”

 

Kíli, having come three times today, is nigh unconscious, but that wakes him.

 

“What?” he asks, voice alert though his eyes have trouble blinking open.

 

“I…” Thorin trails off, unable to finish the thought. “Never mind, go to sleep.”

 

Sometimes, Thorin forgets Kíli is a lot more devious than he gives him credit for. He also forgets that Bofur and Kíli are quite good friends.

 

The next day, when he gets back to his room from an absolutely endless council meeting not at all helped by remembering that he _said_ that, why on earth would he say that and more importantly why on earth did he not _repeat it_ when Kíli asked, Kíli is waiting.

 

On the bed, in just his trousers.

 

Not all dwarves are built like Thorin. He’s taller than most, for one, and he’s both a smith and a fighter, he’s broad and bulky. Kíli on the other hand is younger. He’s almost slender in comparison, but his muscles are well-defined for one so young, and he’s quite as tall as Thorin.

 

He’s gorgeous.

 

A breathless noise is punched out of Thorin when he sees Kíli, sitting on his bed, waiting for him.

 

“Hello, Thorin,” Kíli says.

 

Dwarves don’t put much stock in the incest nonsense men do; they don’t breed easily and they take love where they can find it, but still, it does strange things to Thorin’s stomach to hear his youngest nephew call him by his name rather than “uncle”.

 

Not to mention there’s something about Kíli’s tone of voice tonight, something more firm than usual. Firm is not a word Thorin usually associates with Kíli, in fact, this may well be the first time. Fíli claims it’s why they’re so well-suited to each other – no one else has the power to make Thorin laugh quite as well and hard.

 

Even in bed, Kíli is such a joyful, happy partner, laughing with new discoveries and all the mess and indignity sex brings with it. Thorin can barely imagine anyone better to even out his most serious moments, to bring a smile to his face.

 

And smiling is certainly what Kíli is doing now, wide and predatory, and Thorin’s knees are not weak but perhaps they tremble a little.

 

“This is a nice surprise,” he says, voice hopefully even and not betraying how badly he wants Kíli inside him.

 

Kíli’s smile widens. “I certainly hope so. Do take your boots off, uncle.”

 

Thorin does as he’s told.

 

Clearly it is a night of firsts.

 

He’s distracted with getting out of his heavier garments and down to his shirt and britches, so he doesn’t notice Kíli sneaking up on him until his arms are around Thorin’s waist, and his mouth is at Thorin’s neck.

 

“Long day?” Kíli asks, pressing a kiss behind Thorin’s ear.

 

“Mm,” Thorin agrees, enjoying the heat of Kíli’s body.

 

“Let me take care of you,” Kíli says, hands snaking to the buttons on Thorin’s shirt and undoing them one by one.

 

Kíli knows him well, and his fingers are flicking across Thorin’s nipples before Thorin can work up an adequate response, one that isn’t _yes yes now please._

He’s not entirely positive how he loses his trousers, but they’re gone, somehow, and Kíli’s leading him to bed slowly, laying him out and straddling his waist. Familiar territory, then, Thorin’s lost count of the amount of times he’s had Kíli like this, knees on either side of Thorin’s hips and back arched as he fucks himself back on Thorin’s cock. In fact, he would definitely count it as one of his favorite things in the world.

 

Except Kíli’s making no move for the oil, and he’s caressing softly all around Thorin’s upper body, especially distracted by his nipples. He leans down to take one in his mouth as he strokes along the line of Thorin’s neck, and if a moan escapes with Thorin’s shiver, well, no one’s the wiser.

 

Thorin is undeniably hard now, but Kíli’s weight is pressing him down into the bed and he can think of nothing to do but accept Kíli’s caresses as they come, especially as Kíli slides down lower and lower, suckling a mark against Thorin’s hipbone, making his hips roll slightly.

 

“You should be naked,” Thorin gets out between deep breaths.

 

“All in time,” Kíli answers, suckling at the head of Thorin’s cock.

 

Thorin still remembers the first time Kíli did that, head cocked sideways, curious, even younger than he is now, how Thorin had clutched at the bedsheets desperately attempting to keep his hips from moving and his orgasm at bay.

 

Kíli has always called the shots in their relationship.

 

Perhaps it should be surprising it has never come to this before.

 

After a few moments of almost lazy attention to Thorin’s cock, Kíli lets it slide from his mouth and devotes his attention further down to his balls, rolling them in his hands and smiling at the shiver that runs through Thorin. “Legs up,” he commands.

 

And then, maker have mercy, he’s sliding between and under Thorin’s legs, spreading them apart, revealing –

 

Tasting.

 

Licking at Thorin’s naked arse with his clever, cursed tongue, feeling out the shape of his buttocks with his calloused, perfect hands and finally sliding his mouth down the crevasse towards Thorin’s hole.

 

Thorin refuses responsibility for the noises he makes.

 

Kíli and his tongue have always been far too clever for their own good.

 

He doesn’t linger long, anyway (though Thorin will be exploring this, later, on himself and on Kíli, extensively). He licks around Thorin’s hole several times, and worms his tongue inside, somehow, carefully. It’s so warm and intimate Thorin can’t even figure out how he should respond.

 

It’s only when Kíli pulls away he realizes he’s been moaning steadily, when Kíli says, low and rough, “The noises you make. Thorin…”

 

And then he’s reaching for the oil on the bedside table, slicking his fingers with it, and then – pausing.

 

“Do you want this?” he asks, looming above Thorin, his stupidly expressive eyes full of honesty.

 

“ _Yes,_ ” is all Thorin can bring himself to say. “Yes, _please,_ Kíli…”

 

Kíli mutters something to himself which may or may not be “thank the maker” as he brings his hand down to Thorin’s arse again.

 

“Next time,” he says, “Next time you tell me as soon as you need something, yes? You tell me and we talk about it, I can’t guess all your moods, my love, and if what you need is for me to fuck you into next week I want to know and I want to do it.”

 

As he’s saying this, his index finger is sliding slowly inside, gentle and exploratory, and Thorin is saying “yes yes yes yes” and he’s not sure it’s because of that or Kíli’s words.

 

Kíli curses and wrangles his way out of his trousers with his free hand. Kíli’s cock is about as handsome as a cock can be, especially now, flushed and dark and a little bit curved and as long and lithe as Kíli himself.

 

The finger in Thorin is doing little but rotate slowly, and he cannot fucking take this anymore.

 

“More,” he grinds out, his voice hoarse.

 

A second finger comes in beside the first. It’s a tight fit, and it stings a little, burns as it stretches open, but Kíli knows what he’s doing, almost too well, because he finds that little patch of nerves Thorin’s never found on his own and _Durin’s beard._

 

Thorin loses a little time somewhere in between because the next he knows there are three fingers in him and he’s pressing down against them frantically, trying to get them back on that spot, that fucking spot, Thorin has never been this close without someone’s hand on his cock.

 

“Look at you,” Kíli whispers. “You’re going to come just from this, aren’t you.” He seems fascinated, willing, his fingers crook incrementally and that is not happening, not on Thorin’s watch.

 

He grips Kíli’s wrist tight, stopping him. “I want you in me,” he says, and he’s starting to understand where Dwalin’s shamelessness came from, because, “I am coming on your cock and it is happening _now._ ”

 

Kíli groans, deeply, and pulls his fingers out. He slicks oil over his cock as Thorin shoves a pillow under his lower back, knees apart.

 

“This will probably hurt,” Kíli warns, holding himself as he aims for Thorin’s hole.

 

“Good,” Thorin says. “Please.”

 

He hooks his feet around Kíli’s back and Kíli sinks in slowly and it does hurt, it does, it stretches too far and he starts to panic as it goes on and on and is there even enough oil in the world, but then as sudden as it started it stops and Kíli’s resting in him.

 

Thorin’s feet on Kíli’s back keep him there, force him to stay put, but given the tremble all through Kíli’s frame, Thorin doubts he’s ready.

 

It takes a few moments before the ache subsides, but when it does, Kíli has opened his eyes and is waiting for Thorin to let him move, so patient with him.

 

He does move, and it’s glorious. Thorin’s hips buck entirely unintentionally, and it drags Kíli’s cock right against his prostate, and Thorin shouts. Kíli grins, shakily. His cock is curved just right for this and Thorin is cursing himself for not asking for this _months_ ago.

 

Before long, Kíli’s making slow circles with his hips, grinding just right and Thorin absolutely cannot fucking take it, cannot believe he’s saying “faster, harder, Kíli, more.”

 

Kíli does as he’s told, here if nowhere else, and begins to thrust hard and fast and so good. So good and over and over till it aches as much as it feels good and Thorin doesn’t even know what to do with the way he feels.

 

He’s on a perpetual plateau of _nearly there oh mahal nearly more please yes_ and he’s not even sure how much of this he’s saying out loud but it must be quite a lot because Kíli’s looking at him with these wide hungry eyes, and Thorin has no idea how he’s keeping this pace, how he can stand it.

 

Kíli slows again and Thorin – Thorin needs – “Kiss me,” he gasps out.

 

Kíli leans in, stops himself. “Had my mouth on your –“

 

“Don’t fuckin’ care.”

 

The kiss is everything Thorin needs, his mouth dry from gasping and Kíli’s wet and warm, everything probably disgusting and the room reeks of sex and Kîli’s going faster again, forehead pressed to Thorin’s shoulder.

 

Thorin grabs at his cock, which has been leaking steadily against his belly ever since Kíli first hit his prostate. It’s so sensitive, so overstimulated and undertouched he knows this will end in seconds.

 

“I’m going to – “ he gets out, “almost…”

 

“Yes,” Kíli says. “Yes, come on, yes.”

 

Thorin comes all over himself, unceremoniously, sliding through more pleasure than he rightly knows what to do with, semen streaking up all the way to his beard.

 

A rough groan is pulled from Kíli as he leans in for another kiss and thrusts twice as hard before shuddering to a stop himself. Kíli is a vision when he comes, teeth clenched and head thrown back, and Thorin spurts again weakly just from the sight and feel of Kíli inside of him.

 

It takes a long time for either of them to be capable of words.

 

Kíli’s lying over one of Thorin’s thighs, head pillowed beside Thorin, eyes closed, hands wandering idly over Thorin’s back, through his hair.

 

Eventually, Thorin pulls his leg free, winces at the strain in the muscle.

 

Kíli drags him close, into his arms, and Thorin can’t even think to protest.

 

“Next time,” Kíli mumbles, “tell me what you want.”

 

“Mm,” Thorin says, burrowing closer.

 

-

 

Whether or not, and how many times, Dwalin says “I told you so” the next morning over breakfast, seeing Thorin loose and relaxed and squirming on his chair, remains strictly unimportant.


End file.
